I have skirted the blotted shadows of a scarcely
skirted madness, circled the sodded
walls of a boarded-up
sadness, come out spotted, stained, shaken
wet, only to stick my head into the maddening hiss of
a whirling weedwacker line because I
felt only the urge to do it &
nothing else—blind, led as galaxy
pulling sun, in turn pulling planets, in turn
holding each of us to our tenets
words are nothing, and still
there is nothing
I have forgotten
every sentence I have ever
assembled and yet I’ve somehow
remembered how it felt to have culled it
but I only feel when I wag
or touch, when I bray
or cuff, when I fly or
fuck, the primitive
skull empty of thought
I know you think you’ve
rolled in a stink like
but this foulness here
will knock back your
Leave you unmoored.
I have forgotten my name.
And how to navigate a conversation.
I have lost all accountability for
my anal glands.
the season of green is unfurling, and
we’ve eagerly yearned to be circling
eternally, whirling forever
in search of the
vermin, & only abjuring
when discerning and earning the spins
it’s not absurdity, because we know that we’re
sure to be, I mean we’ve certainly learned that we
aren’t pure or mature so the
word is we got to be
Everything I know is everything I’ve always known:
Shadows are only shadows to those
who’ve seen stars, who aren’t
locked away in caves, tied with chains, caught behind bars.
But even stars are not necessarily what they are
today, but now only light from white dwarfs
yesterday, because nothing
red or hot can survive this inflation, this
long ago explosion and dilation.
I could never drink enough to warm this
mistimed chill, could not fill
consistent malicious spiritlessness, and still
our universe, everything, once tight with absence, an
impossibly dense vastness, all knowledge, the very
last sense, will burn
off into a nothing
to which we’ll inexorably return, and
meanwhile, I will go about losing the things to say in
trying to find the ways to say them, and
will go about forgetting the thing I am in trying to
remember the ways I was then.
Even when everything is covered in white, and
up is down, and left is right, and
being over is through, I won’t
ever feel right when
a thing you have lost, a
part of yourself
once had, now
among the inscrutable white of
pages, notes, memories
forgotten, though nearly captured, only
surrounded by interminable
Recently, I went to Israel and performed live a piece I wrote for the MOVING WORDS project for ARTS By The People. Aside from the trip being fantastic for all kinds of personal reasons, I was honored to have the opportunity to debut the animation and perform it live at the 2017 Animix Festival in Tel Aviv.
I don’t think I’ve posted anything on Mother’s Day since my mom died. I don’t feel like verifying this fact, even though I easily could. What I do know is that in the past I’ve felt bitter about this day. I’ve felt bitter about it for reasons that go beyond my mother no longer being here. And maybe the fact that I felt it necessary and good to post something today had something to do with healing. Maybe the fact that I went ahead and took out her letters and her photographs today, scanned some of them in, put some words to page — something “new” — maybe this all has something to do with healing.
If you have read THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION please go to Amazon or Goodreads and review it. It’s Friday afternoon, after all. What better thing to do?!?
I’m not gonna lie, my inspire meter has been resting on “E” for the past few months. My dog brain has been in need of dem bones. Well, last week, I found a big bag of ’em in the form of the distinctly venerable (yet delightfully irreverent) journal, Atticus Review. I’m happy and excited to tell y’all that I’ll be the new Editor-in-Chief of that exceptional wardrobe of words, and it’s got my inspire meter back on the big “F” where it belongs. (#notaeuphemism)
This is the Texas Book Tour for This Is Not a Confession. June 4th through June 7th. Three cities. 450 Miles. The first stop was Austin at Book People. The only thing that could've made this better for me is if somehow Willie Nelson's name could've been on the marquee...